


in the eyes of the beholder

by pchsnplms



Series: the kindest thing [1]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Eventual Smut, Feral Jaskier, Fluff, M/M, Pining, Slow Burn, and hopeless romatic Jaskier, and maybe immortal Jaskier?? something like that, but also soft Jaskier, it's kinda from jaskier's perspective, not pov first person though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-20
Updated: 2020-03-21
Packaged: 2021-02-23 01:28:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23236831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pchsnplms/pseuds/pchsnplms
Summary: Jaskier shakes his head, almost surprised at his own thoughts. Since when has “he’s my friend” become “I will fight Destiny itself with my bare hands for the right to be by his side”? Ah, well. It’s a nice line for the next ballad, at least. He should write it down.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: the kindest thing [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1690765
Comments: 59
Kudos: 610





	1. 1 day

So, here’s the thing: Geralt does, indeed, have two very scary swords, and he always looks like he’s about to murder someone, and he’s incredibly impolite. But that’s what you’d expect from a witcher, isn’t it? If everyone hated Jaskier and only called to him when there’s some dirty, dangerous work, he’d become a brooding loner as well.

The bard was completely content with travelling with that sort of man if it meant he’d get to participate in all the adventures, see the world, look danger in the eyes and then write a ballad about it. He offered everything he had to the witcher, his lute and his talent, hoping the man would let him come with. And, well, Geralt didn’t really say no, did he? He just… punched Jaskier in the dick, sort of. It was well-deserved. Could be worse.

And everything seemed settled. They would tolerate each other’s company and both get something out of it. Jaskier’d write a couple of songs, and then, when the witcher stopped inspiring him, he’d leave. Until those elves captured them.

If Jaskier’s being honest, he did not expect to see Geralt in such a light, at all. The witcher, the scary White Wolf, the bloody Butcher of Blaviken who was said to mercilessly have murdered people, appeared to be not only reasonable, but kind and empathetic. He tried to solve everything peacefully. And - not that it matters much, it’s more of a nice little detail than an important part of the story - he tried to protect Jaskier. Asked the elves to let the bard go, being completely ready to die himself.

How could that not impress Jaskier? The man had the heart of bloody gold! Yet, he let everyone to push him around, bowed his head to the people who called him awful names, he tolerated all that nonsense without a word! No, Jaskier simply _had_ to do something about it. He swore he’d make everyone see what Geralt was really like, and he intends to keep his promise.

After Geralt gets paid for dealing with “the devil”, they leave, and so their adventuring begins. Geralt makes it perfectly clear that he doesn’t want the bard around: he has Jaskier walking on foot, ignores him, gives him angry looks. The bard doesn’t buy it, though. If Geralt truly wanted him gone, he’d at least _try_ to intimidate him. Even better, he could simply leave Jaskier behind. It’s quite obvious he wouldn’t be able to catch up with a horse.

But Geralt doesn’t. He lets Jaskier stick around, and whether it means the witcher wants some company, or a better reputation, or some battle music on the background while he kills monsters, Jaskier will take it. Because he really does want to help Geralt, in any way he can.

Jaskier isn’t exactly a stranger to travelling, so this new lifestyle of his isn’t too exhausting. He’s a minstrel, after all, and you can’t really make much coin by performing in the same place all the bloody time.

When they set up camp for the night, Jaskier takes a sleeping bag out of his backpack and puts it on the other side of the campfire from Geralt’s. The witcher goes off into the forest without a word and comes back with a dead rabbit some time later.

“Oh, nice! You got us some dinner!”

“I got _myself_ some dinner.”

Jaskier closes his mouth when he was just about to say something else and looks at Geralt in disbelief.

“Oh, come on! Are you honestly telling me that you’re not going to share a meal with your favorite travelling companion?”

The witcher tilts his head. 

“You’re my only travelling companion. An unwanted one.”

Jaskier sighs dramatically and goes rummaging through his bag. After a few seconds, he pulls out a loaf of almost fresh bread.

“How about this, then? I give you half of this, you give me half of the rabbit.”

“Is that the one you had in your pants earlier?”

“Maybe.”

“Hmm.”

They settle on a less fair deal, the witcher getting way more than half of the meat, but Jaskier doesn’t complain (much). He tries to act normally, keeps the conversation going, even if it consists of him talking and Geralt just looking at him occasionally. He finds it weirdly difficult. Jaskier has never been shy or particularly awkward but the witcher just has that effect on him. To tell the truth, he’s fascinated by the man.

Well, here’s hoping he doesn’t turn out to be an emotionless beast after all.


	2. 1 week

Jaskier wishes he could say that the first thing he noticed after travelling with Geralt for a few weeks was his big heart, carefully hidden away under all that black armor, or his honesty, or anything of the sort. In reality, it’s his bloody eyes. It’s ridiculous, Jaskier can’t stop staring at them. Such a bright, beautiful color, softly glowing in the darkness, with vertical pupils. 

So, basically, what he notices first is the fact that the big scary witcher is a fucking kitten, apparently.

At some point, he just can’t keep quiet anymore.

“Geralt, you know, I’ve noticed something incredibly interesting,” says the bard, looking up at Geralt who’s riding his horse. Upon getting no answer, he continues. “Your eyes. They, uh, how do I say this…”

“Can’t find the words? A great bard, clearly.”

“Oh, shut up, would you? I wrote a whole ballad about you, and there’s another one coming, actually. But that’s not important. Your eyes, how do they- I don’t know, just- Why are you a cat, Geralt?’

Geralt, the dramatic bastard, stops Roach and glares at Jaskier’s back until he turns around.

“What? I’m not insulting you or anything, I’m genuinely curious! Actually, they are impressive, you know? Helps the whole intimidating non-human persona you’ve got going on. Although, you look much too adorable when the pupils are dilated.”

It seems like Geralt has no words. It’s a bit hard to tell, since his face is about as good of a tell as a brick wall, but his frown looks more confused than anything else.

“I’m not a cat.”

“Might as well be. You can see in the darkness, then?”

“Yes.”

“Ooh, do your pupils go round when you see something you like? That would be _such_ a tell.”

Geralt still looks out of his element.

“Not really. I control them.”

“Ah, well. That’s fine, too. Must be really convenient, now that I think about it, apart from just looking good.”

The witcher’s frown deepens.

“It’s a mutation.”

A pinch of something bitter in his voice stops Jaskier from answering right away. The bard shrugs, trying to appear as carefree as possible.

“Yes, and I think it suits you.”

What the hell was that? Surely, Geralt should know how to take a compliment. Right? Jaskier would presume that he was getting all sorts of flattery from every other person he’s met. Witcher or not, he is extremely attractive. But Geralt’s response sounded as if he was rather surprised to know that someone would consider him good-looking.  
And that’s just ridiculous. So Jaskier makes a point of complimenting Geralt every now and then.

***

“You know, I think I should add something about your hair to the new ballad. Not exactly a heroic theme, still, I think some might appreciate a bit of aesthetically pleasing details,” the bard says while they are having dinner.

“My hair?”

“Why, yes. It looks beautiful in the moonlight. In any light, actually, but the moon is the most poetic.”

The witcher gives him the same confused look, his brows furrowed. It’s like he’s trying to dig deeper into the bard’s words, find some secret purpose behind them. It almost pains Jaskier to see this. Has no one been kind to this man before?

***

“Geralt, will you please look at me?”

They are sitting in a tavern, the witcher is counting the coin they’ve got left, and Jaskier’s trying to compose another song. He watches another man’s face closely when he turns to him. After a few seconds, Geralt asks, “Why? What are you doing?”

“I’m trying to figure out how to describe your face. Give me one of those scary glares.”

There really was no need to ask. Most of Geralt’s glares look the same, and this is certainly not a pleased one.

“Why are you describing my face?”

“For the ballad? Because it’s the perfect mix of manly, pretty and heroic? You see, the sharp angles,” Jaskier traces Geralt’s jaw with the tip of his finger, “are very attractive. And framed by these locks of hair, they look so lovely,” he puts a strand behind Geralt’s ear. “Perfect, as I said.”

The witcher searches for something in his eyes. Then, his lips become a thin line and he turns away, eyes on the coin again. “Saw enough?”

“I’ll never see enough of you, my dear witcher! But for the ballad, yes, I suppose that will be sufficient. How are we doing on the coin?”

“Not too good. You’re going to perform?”

“I always do.” 

Jaskier walks to the centre of the room and plays a few notes on his lute, attracting everyone’s attention. He can feel Geralt’s gaze on him throughout his whole performance. He can’t decide whether it distracts him or fires him up.

***

After a month, Geralt actually gives him a smile in reply to one of his compliments. Well, the corner of the witcher’s mouth curls up a bit. Jaskier considers that an absolute win.


	3. 2 months

Geralt gets badly injured. It was bound to happen eventually, Jaskier supposes, but he still isn’t ready to witness such a thing. The witcher, always so stoic, seemingly indestructible, a magnificent swordsman, walks out of the forest gripping his stomach, with blood practically flowing down. He nearly falls onto the ground as soon as he sees Jaskier. The bard rushes to him, providing him support. 

Jaskier was waiting for the witcher at the edge of a town they stayed in since Geralt forbid him to go to the wyvern’s nest with him.

“Sweet Melitele, are you okay? Well, clearly not, but is it- How bad is it?”

“Bad. Jaskier, I’ve got my healing potion in my bag. I left it in the tavern.”

“You- what?! Why the hell would you leave it there? Honestly, this is fucking ridiculous, it’s like this is your first monster hunt!”

“Shut up and bring me my bag.”

“But…”

Jaskier bites his lip. The last thing he wants right now is to leave the witcher, to bleed out here, in the darkness, alone. The fear of coming back and finding him already dead almost overcomes the bard, but he takes a couple of deep breaths and runs back to the tavern.

It doesn’t take him long to find Geralt’s room, it’s the one right next to his. A second, he looks around. Three seconds, he leaps to the bag and grabs it. Ten seconds, he runs out of the tavern. He hopes he’s not too late. _Gods,_ let him make it in time.

He comes back to Geralt not five minutes later, and he’s still sitting on the ground, propped up against a tree, exactly as Jaskier left him. Which means he hasn’t moved since, which is not a very good sign. When Jaskier falls on his knees next to the witcher, he grabs his bag and rummages through it. He looks like he barely has any strength left in his arms, and it’s the most terrifying thing the bard has ever seen. Geralt is literally the strongest man he’s ever met, and now he can barely move. He certainly can’t talk, there is fucking blood coming out of his mouth. _Oh gods._

Jaskier just sits next to him, unable to help. He doesn’t know what potion Geralt needs anyway. Never in his life has he felt this helpless, completely on edge of breaking down. He can’t lose Geralt. There’s no way he’d die. Is he going to die? No. He can’t. He just can’t, not like this, not when the bard can do absolutely nothing to help.

In a few seconds that feel more like decades to Jaskier, the witcher finally takes a little bottle and gulps the potion hurriedly. After that, he just… passes out. Jaskier blinks in shock. Geralt isn’t moving at all.

“What the fuck… Geralt, are you alive?”

Jaskier takes his hand, tries to find the pulse on his wrist, then his neck. After about five seconds of pure panic rising up in his chest, he feels some weak pulsations and collapses next to Geralt, leaning on the tree as well.

“You bastard, you scared the living shit out of me.”

Predictably, Geralt doesn’t answer. Jaskier looks at him and examines the wound more closely. Apparently, the beast got its claws (or teeth?) in Geralt’s stomach. He didn’t lose too much blood and is healing already, thanks to his mutations and the potion. The bard reaches to the wound but stops himself half way, instead putting down his hand on the witcher’s thigh. Confident that his friend won’t die, he gradually calms down.

In a few minutes, Geralt opens his eyes.

“Jaskier?.. Why the fuck are we on the ground?”

“Well, you passed out and I sat next to you so that people would think we’re just stargazing.”

“Hmm,” the witcher replies with slight annoyance.

“Come on, don’t be like that, it’s a _little_ funny. But really, I couldn’t carry you through half the town, and it seemed like the best idea to just… let you heal. Partly, at least. How are we doing on that front, by the way?”

Geralt rolls up his shirt a little, and looks at the wound.

“Better.”

“Ah, yes, I guessed so by the fact that there is barely any blood coming out of you. Should we bandage you up, maybe?”

“It’s not necessary.”

“Right.”

Jaskier looks at his embroidered sleeve for a couple of seconds and then takes his jacket off. He folds it and puts against Geralt’s wound, because it is definitely going to start bleeding again as soon as the witcher moves, and while Jaskier loves this thing to death, he loves- Well, Geralt’s life is more important, is what he means.

“There you go. Can you walk?”

Geralt gets up, a bit shaky. Jaskier steps closer and puts the other man’s arm around his shoulders, rolling his eyes.

“Thank you.”

“You know, it is actually less embarrassing to ask for help than to die because of your own stupidity.”

“Is that why you’ve been asking me to intimidate people into not killing you for the last two months?”

“Well, yes. Also, the world really couldn’t stand to lose me. You’re doing everyone a great favor. A true friend of humanity. And of mine, of course.”

“Hmm.”

When they finally get to the tavern and settle in their room, Jaskier can’t take his eyes off of the witcher. Every now and again, an echo of that panic clutches his heart. A part of him thinks, if the man survived his body being practically torn open, he’ll live through anything, so there is nothing to be afraid of. Still, Jaskier feels more scared now than he was before. Somehow, he hadn’t truly thought of how dangerous Geralt’s work is until this day.

He _really_ doesn’t want him to die. As in, Jaskier feels he’d do anything to keep the witcher safe. Hell, he’d probably kill that wyvern with his bare hands if he had to, in order to protect Geralt. Which is quite silly, to be frank. Not only getting so attached to this man, but also being so ready to fight for him. As if he’s not about twice as strong as Jaskier, has decades of experience, thighs that can probably strangle three men at once, and jaws that an alligator would be jealous of. And the whole supernaturally fast healing thing, and sharper senses.

Well, Jaskier has never claimed to be especially reasonable. Loyal, dramatic and a lovesick fool, yes. Clever, handsome and silver tongued, absolutely. Reasonable, not so much.

Geralt falls asleep almost instantly, as soon as he takes off his armor and clothes, all stained with blood.

Before going to bed, Jaskier comes down and plays some songs in a nearly-empty tavern, trying to relax rather than performing. He doesn’t sleep well that night, nor any of the upcoming ones, bothered by nightmares and anxious thoughts.

***

About a week after the incident, Jaskier finds himself unable to fall asleep once again, in the middle of the night, far away from any civilization. He can’t even play his lute here: the forest is nearly silent for miles around, and the music would surely wake the witcher up.

He sighs and sits up reluctantly. After glancing at Geralt, Jaskier decides to walk around for a bit. It’s a starry night, and he can see most of his surroundings. Besides, there is a river nearby, and the sound of running water usually calms people down, right? Right. It wouldn’t hurt to try, anyway.

Jaskier walks to the river, hoping his footsteps aren’t too loud. Upon getting there, he simply watches the dark stream, thinking about nothing in particular. It flows not far beneath him, framed by a rocky coast. They bathed in the river just a few hours ago, though “bathed” might be an overstatement. The water was way too cold for Jaskier to spend there more than a couple of minutes.

Consumed by the surreal atmosphere and his own thoughts, the bard doesn’t notice someone creeping up on him from behind until there is a sword at his throat.

“Take of your clothes,” an unfamiliar voice says growls into his ear.

Jaskier takes a sharp breath, tries to think of a way out. Are there more people coming? So far, he only hears the man who’s threatening him. Still, judging by where the voice came from, he is taller than Jaskier, and for gods’ sakes, he’s got a blade at his throat. The bard certainly has no advantages here.

“Could at least buy me dinner first,” he says, hoping to win some time. The man behind him scoffs and spits on the ground.

"Don't act all smart, asshole. They look expensive."

“They are, thank you for noticing. I, uh- Well, all right. How am I supposed to take them off if you’re nearly cutting my throat there?”

The bandit slowly steps back, finally freeing Jaskier. “Don’t turn around. And don’t you even dare try anything.”

Jaskier tries something. He runs towards the river, yelling as loudly as he can, and then jumps down. For the first few second, he thinks that he’s fine. Then he gets up to the surface and realizes that the flow took him considerably farther away from where he just was. He also realizes that the water is cold as all hell.

“GERALT,” he screams again, knowing it would be enough to wake a small village up, not to mention the witcher. Now he’s trying to let Geralt know where his cold dead body is going to be when he freezes to death and drowns, really.

Almost immediately after that, he hears the sweet, sweet sound of swords clashing together. Finally, the sleeping beauty is here.

In the meantime, Jaskier tries his best to swim towards the coast and grab something. The river took him so far that it’s not possible to see what’s happening behind the trees, where he was attacked.

Eventually, after a number of fruitless attempts, Jaskier manages to take a hold on a rock. It’s not close enough to the coast, however, and he knows he won’t be able to swim against the stream. So he grabs onto the rock tighter and hopes Geralt will find him soon.

“Jaskier?” a worried voice comes. “Where the fuck are you?”

“Here!”

When Geralt reaches out to him and hauls him onto the solid ground, the bard can barely feel his legs, and his hands are bleeding where he held onto the rock for his dear life. His teeth are also chattering, which makes talking far more complicated.

“Took you long enough.”

“Are you hurt?” Jaskier shakes his head. “Sorry I wasn’t ready to jump up in the middle of the night just in case you _somehow_ got in trouble.”

“I graciously forgive you, though you truly should be more vigilant.”

Jaskier looks up on Geralt and his heart might or might not miss a beat. He looks… strangely attractive, with his hair down, blood splattered all over his face and the front of his shirt, smirking, until he notices the bard shiver.

“Come on, back to camp. You got any other clothes?”

“Ahh… I have a second shirt?” he follows Geralt through the woods.

“Seriously? Knowing you, I’d think you would bring a whole wardrobe.”

“And carry all that? Worse yet, make Roach do it? What kind of monster do you think I am?”

“One who likes dressing well too much for his own good.”

“So you _do_ think I dress well? I seem to recall you saying I look like a child’s drawing. ‘Too many colors’, you said.”

“Hmm.”

Once they reach the camp, Geralt hands him a pair of his pants.

“What- what are these for?”

“You’ve got to wear something until yours dry off. They’re clean.”

“Right. Right... Okay then. Thank you,” Jaskier mutters as he changes. As expected, Geralt’s trousers are a bit too wide for him, but with a belt they work just fine. The witcher wipes his face and cleans his swords in the meanwhile.

After changing into dry clothes, Jaskier sits down by the fire and tries to warm up a little. Geralt lowers himself onto the ground next to him, holding some bandages and a salve. He takes the bard’s hands and looks up at him. Jaskier nods, swallowing, and Geralt starts carefully tending to his wounds. The salve burns a little. The skin that the witcher touches burns more.

Soon, Jaskier is hidden away under a blanket, in his bedroll. Even that doesn’t save him from the cold, though. He feels as if he spent hours in that bloody river instead of a few minutes.

“Still cold?”

“No shit, Geralt. Did the shivering give me away?” 

He gets a tired sigh in response and immediately regrets his words. 

“Sorry. I’m just… tired, I guess. I haven’t been sleeping well, and now this whole thing, it’s just. Great. Here’s to enjoying some peace and quiet in the middle of nowhere. What kind of a bandit was he anyway, walking aro- Geralt? Excuse me?”

“Hmm?”

Jaskier stops his ranting when he sees the witcher lying down behind him, and then hugging him, pulling the bard closer to his chest.

“Don’t get me wrong, this is very nice, but uh. What are you doing?”

“Don’t want you to catch a cold. Would be a headache to deal with.”

“Oh. Well, aren’t you all generous and kind today. I should get in trouble more often.”

Geralt frowns. “Don’t.”

Jaskier looks up at him, slightly amused, and the witcher meets his gaze.

“Please,” he adds. His expression becomes soft, and if the bard didn’t know better, he’d say the man actually cares.

Jaskier nods quickly and turns away, hoping to hide his soft smile.

He finally gets a good night of sleep.


	4. 3 months

Geralt’s wound has healed completely in just about five days, but it’s not until a month later that Jaskier notices the scar it has left.

They decide to share a room in a tavern to save some money. Their lifestyle can hardly be called luxurious, and they sleep next to each other most of the days either way, so it’s not a big deal.

Unless it sort of this. Maybe Jaskier is just too poetic for his own good, but he finds it all so domestic. It is _their_ room they are walking into. Geralt throws some logs into _their_ fireplace, to keep _the two of them_ warm. Jaskier takes out the bread and cheese they have left and puts it on a small table for _both of them_ to eat. If he focuses on these moments, it almost feels like he has a home.

He does have a home, of course, and a family, but that is a different story entirely. Jaskier doesn’t wish to settle, that’s not the point at all. He wants to share his life, a life of a minstrel and a traveler, with Geralt. He knows that he is but the smallest fragment of the witcher long, long existence, hardly important. But in these moments, when there’s just the two of them, he can almost trick himself into believing otherwise.

Geralt orders himself a bath, and soon a couple of maidens feel the tub brought into their room with hot water. Witcher takes off his clothes; armor at first, piece by piece, then the shirt, then it’s time for Jaskier to look away and pretend to be busy. Maybe play a lute?

Something catches his gaze, however, and he takes a couple of steps towards the other man, raises his hand without even noticing it. It’s only when he nearly touches the long scar stretching across Geralt’s stomach in such a familiar shape, he pulls his hand away.

“Is that from?..”

“Yes.”

“I didn’t realize it had left such a mark,” the bard says quietly, his words coated with shock.

“That’s what injuries do, Jaskier. They leave scars.”

“Does it still hurt? Do any of them?”

He looks Geralt in the eyes, frowning with concern.

“No.”

Jaskier finds himself wanting to trace every single one of those scars with his fingers. As it is, he can only use his eyes. He’s seen Geralt naked, swimming and bathing in lakes when they had to, but never so close, almost always at night.

Eventually, Geralt moves away. He strips naked and steps into the bathtub, exhaling loudly. Jaskier looks straight ahead for a few more seconds. He wishes so badly he could take care of this man. What does he do with this? With the need to touch Geralt so gently, the way he surely will never be allowed to? With the desire to care for the wounds he can only guess the origin of, even if they cannot be healed?

He shakes his head lightly and goes back to his lute.

***

Jaskier has never seen Geralt comb his hair, weirdly enough. But then again, they don’t spend every minute of the day together.

So when the witcher takes an old wooden comb out of his backpack, he freezes in the middle of petting Roach. She huffs, clearly not pleased, and steps away to pinch some grass. Jaskier stands still, watching the other man from behind.

Geralts pulls the comb through his hair once, twice. Then grips a fairly big strand at the top and starts brushing it fast, almost violently. Jaskier, who has grown up with two sisters, nearly screams at the sight and rushes to where Geralt is sitting.

“ _What_ are you doing?!”

The witcher glances at him with a frown.

“Doesn’t it hurt?”

He shrugs.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake. Firstly, your precious hair will fall off if you keep treating it like that! Secondly, not that you seem to care, but there is literally no reason for you do torture yourself like this.”

“It’s not torture. It’s faster.”

“It would be even faster if you shaved it all off. If you are not willing to spend time taking care of your hair properly, let me do it instead.”

“Hmm,” Geralt says, reluctance clear in his tone.

“Please?”

“Fine. I’ll sharpen my sword.”

Jaskier waits until the witcher gets everything he needs, and then takes the comb from him. He gets on his knees behind the log Geralt’s sitting on and starts carefully going through the locks of silver hair. With the fire nearby and the moon, he can see it just fine.

Geralt puts the sword away pretty soon. Jaskier knows it usually takes him longer than that to sharpen it properly, and frowns, trying to figure out why would the witcher stop, until another quiet _hmm_ comes from him. A pleased one.

“See? I told you this would be way better!”

“M-hm.”

Geralt tilts his head back a little and Jaskier puts the comb away. He runs his fingers from the front to the back of Geralt’s scalp, makes a few circular motions, then gently pulls the hair the other way. Runs his fingers through it again, getting another happy _hmm_ from Geralt, and moves away.

“Well? Am I hired to be your personal hair groomer?”

“Yes. Just don’t shave it off.”


	5. 6 months

Autumn is coming, Jaskier realizes as another shiver goes through his body under the wind that is getting colder by the day. The witcher, who seems to take no notice of the worsening weather, is riding Roach slightly ahead of him. They are planning to reach a town until dark and finally sleep at an inn, thanks to Jaskier’s rather persistent requests.

Surprisingly, everything goes as planned, and a few hours later, the bard is sitting in a nice, warm tavern next to his favorite witcher, and they are enjoying a nice, warm meal. And then, a group of raggedy-looking men comes in the inn, talking loudly. From the first second, they behave as if they own the place, and that’s enough to make the bard’s good mood almost disappear. He was planning on performing tonight, but these types of people always act like complete assholes; these are the ones who throw bread at Jaskier if they don’t like a song, and boo, and make him feel tired after a performance, rather than energetic, as he usually does.

So now Jaskier’s drinking his beer dismally and trying to at least enjoy their stay at an actual inn, and not in the cold woods. Suddenly, he catches something one of the men is saying.

“Fucking witchers. Look at him, sitting there like he’s a bloody hero!”

Jaskier glances at Geralt. He’s sitting between him and the wall, eating his soup with an absolutely blank expression.

“Aye, creepy bastards. What the hell is he even doing here, plotting another bloodbath? Butcher of Blaviken, they call this one. Real piece of work,” the man says, loud and clear, as if he wants everyone to hear.

And that’s it. Jaskier is fucking done with them. He was ready to postpone his glorious performance and deprive the good people of his singing, because of these assholes, which is bad enough already. But this is crossing the line.

If some people don’t understand him through music, he’ll explain to them in a more cruel fashion, just how fucking amazing Geralt is. Precisely, by comparison: Geralt is going to sit here quietly like a good boy he is, and Jaskier’s gonna cut a bitch.

He inhales deeply. He gets up and makes a beeline right to those fuckers’ table, ignoring Geralt’s surprised look and grabbing someone’s bottle on the way. Coming up to their leader from behind, Jaskier draws his arm back and hits the man on the head. The glass shatters, and that asshole falls to the side. Without checking to see whether he’s still conscious, Jaskier gets closer to the table, takes a fork and stabs someone’s hand with it.

By that point, the men’s shock wears out, and they are starting to get up and grab whatever weapon they can find. _Shit, some of them actually have weapons._ Jaskier holds up a chair in front if him and is reading himself for the fight when someone yanks him back.

Geralt is stepping in between him and the men. Jaskier suddenly hears the innkeeper yell something angrily at him, and puts the damned chair on the floor, as he’s told.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?! That’s it, get out of my tavern! I don’t need you lot starting fights in here!”

The witcher sighs and, still keeping an eye on the assholes who are scrambling towards the exit, walks to their table. He starts collecting his things when Jaskier turns to the innkeeper.

“You have my deepest apologies,” he puts puts his hand on his heart dramatically. “I would never have done such a thing if those awful men were not speaking ill of my dearest companion, Geralt of Rivia. Look at him! Ready to spend this cold night outside without a single protest, even though there is not an inch of his fault in this whole extremely unpleasant incident! What a tortured, yet kind, soul.”

Jaskier sighs and shakes his head sadly. He’s looking at the floor, trying to appear as pitiful as possible, when some some woman comes up behind the innkeeper.

“Father, but this is master Jaskier! He’s that bard whose ballads I wanted to hear so badly! I told you about him, don’t you remember?”

The man looks absolutely done with this whole ordeal. Geralt walks up to them, slightly confused, and silently stands behind Jaskier.

“Would you please let them stay?” the young woman keeps pleading.

“I can’t let them stay, this man started a fight in the middle of my tavern!”

“But father, he said he’s sorry!”

“I am sorry, too,” Geralt adds, clearly making an effort to look the part. Jaskier barely keeps himself from smiling: he spent a couple of hours teaching the witcher to actually apologize and thank people, and speaking in a less threatening tone.

The innkeeper keeps glancing between the three of them, and then finally gives up.

“All right then, I will make an exception for him, but only because he looks very polite,” he says to his daughter, pointing to the bard. “And you, master Jaskier, will have to perform here tomorrow. Better make it good!”

Jaskier beams at the innkeeper and his daughter, thanking both of them.

A few minutes later, he walks into their room right behind Geralt, and falls onto the nearest bed, ready to go to sleep.

“What the fuck was that.”

The bard sits up and glances at Geralt taking off his armor. He sounds way too angry for Jaskier’s liking. And, well, not that there isn’t any reason for him to be. They nearly got kicked out of the tavern because of a foolish thing Jaskier did. Still, he could not find an ounce of regret in him.

“Huh?”

“Why did you attack those men, Jaskier? I thought you were so eager to stay at an inn, for once!”

The bard scoffs, spreading his arms.

“Because they were scum! Those assholes were talking shit about you, knowing you wouldn’t do anything to them. So _I_ did!”

“I do not need your… protection. I’m not some damsel whose honor needs to be defended.”

Jaskier breathes in, trying to calm himself. The flash of ice-cold anger those men raised in him wasn’t something he felt often, though not something completely unfamiliar either. He tends to get protective over the people he cares about.

“Of course not! I just really wanted to fight them. More for myself than anyone else, really. Especially considering that they clearly either misunderstood or simply didn’t hear any of my ballads about you! Now that is disrespect I am not going to put up with!”

That draws a soft chuckle out of the witcher. He shakes his head, as if to say, _what am I going to do with you._ Jaskier can’t help but grin.

***

When they are leaving the town a few days later, after Geralt has killed a manticora and Jaskier has earned his forgiveness by entertaining the tavern’s customers, the bard notices the other man’s persistent stare on him. He raises his eyebrows in a silent question.

“You know those men could’ve killed you, right?”

“Well, they didn’t.”

“They would have, if it wasn’t for me.”

“Firstly, someone else would probably have stopped the fight. Secondly, excuse me? Do you not think I could defend myself against that bunch of sorry assholes?”

“They were probably professional mercenaries.”

Jaskier huffs.

“Oh please, I’ve fought worse.”

“Doubt that.”

“All right, I’ve run away from worse.”

“Hmm,” Geralt agrees.

Jaskier pouts and stays silent for a couple of minutes.

“I’m fairly sure I could win that fight.”

“How?” the witcher asks with the most exasperating, smug little smile.

“Well, I- I don’t know, I usually improvise!”

“If you are planning on getting in trouble as often as you do, maybe I should teach you to fight. You need to know how to defend yourself.”

“Wait, really?” Jaskier looks up at him with excitement.

“M-hm.”

That evening, they set up a camp earlier than usual. After brief consideration, Geralt finds them two large, sturdy sticks and tosses one to Jaskier. He barely catches and tries to pretend it was fine. The witcher looks at him for a second or two.

“Have you ever fought with a sword?”

“Not really. Maybe? I was drunk.”

Another hard stare.

“All right, how about you try to ‘improvise’. Attack me as you would in an actual battle.”

“I would probably throw dirt into your eyes, kick you in the balls and hit with something heavy on the head. Need I remind you that I have no idea how to handle a sword? A- a metal. Sword. I mean- nevermind.”

Jaskier is starting to wonder whether Geralt can burn holes in people with those eyes. Maybe if he really puts his mind to it.

He teaches Jaskier the basics first: a defending stance, a couple of moves that would throw his opponent off. The things he will definitely need and would actually want to use. They start sparring as soon as Jaskier has the first idea about how to hit his opponent. It takes him a couple of hours to finally hit Geralt’s shoulder, and he’s pretty proud of that, even knowing that the witcher let him.

They keep training, spending a couple of hours almost every day on sparring. Now, Geralt talks more while they’re walking: he tells Jaskier about different styles of sword-fighting, strategies, and even says something about his own training once or twice, though he refuses to discuss it further. Jaskier doesn’t push.

Geralt starts going harder on the bard in a week or so, and then the actual fighting begins. Jaskier’s body is now often bruised, and he ends up pinned to the ground on most of the days. Still, he feels like he’s making progress. Sparring also puts the witcher in a good mood, it seems. Jaskier can’t get enough of him smiling. And sometimes, Geralt even looks proud.

“You’re a fast learner”, he says after a training session, and the bard’s heart honest to gods starts to sing.

“I do have a spectacular teacher.”

Geralt smiles softly.

“We’ll buy you a sword next time we’re in a city. And starting from tomorrow, we’ll use mine to train.”

“Can I take the silver one?”

“Not a chance.”

***

It’s not until two months later that Jaskier gets to participate in a fight. He usually stays away from the monsters, since most of them are way too fast and dangerous for a human to deal with. When a banquet at which he’s performing somehow turns into a big battleground, however, he doesn’t hesitate to take up arms.

From what he understands, some lord offended another, and they started a little fight. About a second or two later, everyone got involved one way or another. Now, Jaskier certainly doesn’t want to murder people just for the hell of it, but as soon as he sees that his friend, another bard, got cornered, he decides that he has to help.

He lets his lute hang on his back and grabs his shortsword (he discreetly put it under a table next to him at the start of the evening). Thankfully, Essi doesn’t seem to be in immediate danger, though it is clear she won’t be able to get through the crowd to escape the dining hall. Jaskier holds up his sword, taking a mug of ale in his free hand. He dances around the hall, dodging and blocking random attacks that come his way. When some guy launches himself toward Jaskier, he deflects his blow with a sword, steps to his side and hits him with a mug. The man falls onto his knees, holding onto his bloodied forehead. Jaskier glances inside the mug and finishes it with a long sip.

Soon, he reaches Essi.

“You okay?”

She nods hurriedly, and they pave their way through the crowd, towards the exist. Essi hits someone with her own lute once or twice, and Jaskier has to fight off some drunken asshole, but they make it in one piece.

Upon getting out of the hall, Essi puts her hands on her knees and tries to catch her breath.

“Since when do you know how yo use a sword?”

“I am a man of many talents. Unlike _some_ of us, who are just singers. Not especially good ones, either.”

“Huh. It’s that witcher, isn’t it?”

Jaskier smiles. He hasn’t seen Geralt in a couple of weeks. They parted ways because Jaskier was offered to perform at this very banquet, in Blaviken, which was obviously the last place the witcher wanted to go.

Jaskier’s departure went rather smoothly. He had a feeling it wasn’t the final farewell. Somehow, he was sure they would meet again.

“I see the rumor’s getting around?”

“Your ballad certainly does. ‘Toss a coin’ is probably one of the worst songs I’ve ever heard, though it is catchy.”

“Well, you have heard of it, at least.”

“I wish I hadn’t. But it is nice to know I’m still better than you.”

Jaskier laughs wholeheartedly and pulls Essi in for a hug. The girl is like a little sister to him, and there is barely anything in this world he loves more than their mutual banter. She pulls him closer, and then lets go.

“Thanks for saving me there.”

“I do need some good competition. I’d hate to be the absolute best, it would be so boring!”

“Don’t worry, you won’t be.”

“Eh, I’ve got a solid chance. Now, what do you say we spend the rest of the evening in the nearest tavern? No one’s going to miss us in there,” Jaskier nods in the general direction of the dining hall.

“Fair enough. Let’s go, and I bet you ten silvers I’ll make more coin than you."

“Make it twenty, Little Eye.”

***

The winter comes, covering the world with a cold, soft blanket of snow, and with it, any rumors of the witchers perish. Neither Geralt, nor others seem to wander the land any longer. It’s like they have completely disappeared. Not that Jaskier is looking for Geralt, of course. He simply likes hearing every now and again that his witcher is still alive, somewhere. The good thing is, there was no rumors of him dying, either.

Jaskier keeps himself busy. They travel with Essi for a little while, and then he goes to Novigrad. Here, in the centre of civilization, there is always some work. During winters, there isn’t much for lords to do other than throw fancy parties, so even if people in taverns become less generous, the nobility provides Jaskier with more than enough opportunities to perform.

He spends more nights drunk, or in a brothel, or in a stranger’s bed than he cares to admit, but that’s not exactly new. He’s young, famous and almost rich, so why not? He’s simply having fun, and if there’s some strange feeling tugging at his heart every now and then, he can ignore it.

When Jaskier gets a free evening, and finds himself too tired to get out of the tavern he’s staying at, he decides to perform there. The people know him well enough, and while he might not make much coin, it still should be fun.

“Great lute you have there,” he hears after finishing one of his most popular songs. He turns around to look at the person speaking, and nearly falls from his stool when he sees the bloody king of elves himself.

They haven’t met in many months, yet it’s hard to confuse him with anyone else: the proud posture, snow-white hair, black eyes.

“Oh, uh… Hello,” Jaskier manages, hoping to gods he isn’t about to be murdered. “It _is_ great. Might I say, I’ve never gotten a finer gift in my life, especially considering… well, the circumstances. That included you being able to kill us, and deciding against that. Incredibly kind of you.”

“Don’t bother. I remember exactly what you were saying back on that mountain. You hate the elves, just like all the other humans. But alas, I am not here to start any more bloodshed.”

“You’re not?”

“I’ve come to find someone in Novigrad, but meeting you here was an accident.”

“Oh.”

They look at each other for a moment. Jaskier gestures to the bar.

“Let me buy you a drink?”

The elf narrows his eyes. “Why?”

“As a welcome to a human city.”

“As you wish.”

Jaskier settles on some wine and soon they are sitting together in the corner of the tavern. Drumming on the table nervously, Jaskier starts, “For the record, I’m sorry for what I said back then. It was foolish of me.”

Filavandrel’s expression barely changes, though he seems to pay closer attention.

“I thought I- Well, I’ve studied history, among other things, and I was quite proud of my knowledge, my education. I never thought it could all turn out to be a lie. Humans teach each other that the elves were the aggressors, some irrational monsters, almost, so I honestly couldn’t know any better until I met you.”

“You were not looking to learn out history, as I recall, human. All you wanted to do was to hurt us, not that I would expect any different from your kind.”

“With all due respect, you weren’t looking to share it. Geralt was protecting those people, and that’s how we got involved. We were doing a good thing.”

 _You, on the other hand, beat us up,_ Jaskier wants to add.

Filavandrel keeps quiet. He is practically impossible to read. After taking a sip of his wine, the elf sighs.

“It is difficult to forget the ages of cruelty. Forgive me if I seem bitter.”

“I understand. It is a shame, what happened between our peoples.”

They slip into the silence. Jaskier isn’t sure what to say, still not daring to strike a regular conversation with the elf. Filavandrel himself seems to be considering something.

“I had thought that you were arrogant and ignorant, much like all other humans. But I see now that you truly regret your words. It warms my heart to know that there is still compassion and common sense to be found among your kind. Perhaps, there still is a hope of fixing the mistakes of the past. I have an offer for you, bard.”

“Oh?”

“You have painted my kind as villians with that ballad of yours. You have the power to make a difference once again, doing the opposite.”

“I don’t simply sell out,” Jaskier shakes his head. “I write only when the inspiration comes, about whatever my heart desires.”

“And it is the stories you hear that inspire you, is it not? I have lived a long life. I can tell you tales you wouldn’t dream of hearing from humans.”

Jaskier licks his lips, considering. Tales of the old? Adventures, love, magic, all told from a perspective of an elf? Such a novelty, a fascinating concept. Something that has never been done before. A good deed. Another ballad that could provide him a place in people’s hearts long after he’s gone. He pretends to not be convinced.

“You said it was an offer. What do I get in return, then?”

Filavandrel smiles mysteriously. 

“Your life promises to be terribly short, human. How would you like to prolong it?”

***

While Jaskier doesn’t doubt for a second that his and Geralt’s paths are going to cross sooner or later, not a week goes by without him thinking about the witcher. And it has been quite a few weeks. Months, even.

Without that broody big guy, Jaskier’s life has become sort of emptier. He travels, performs, enjoys himself and everything the world has to offer, yet he feels as if there’s something missing. Something significant. He’s never really faced with such feelings before. The bard rarely has trouble parting ways with his friends (though, of course, he is always happy to see them). But he really does miss Geralt, and he doesn’t know what to do about it.

At some point, in a tavern, he notices a man whose arms are nearly covered with tattoos, and an idea blooms in his mind.

Jaskier finds a master and gets a simple picture tattooed on his ribs, just below his heart. A head of a white wolf. It hurts, and it takes a while to heal, but Jaskier doesn’t regret his decision for a second. He sees the tattoo as a symbol of this epoch in his life. A reminder of his muse and his dearest friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Essi is a character from the books, a bard a bit younger than Jaskier. I loved her and their relationship, so now she's in my fanfic, alive and well.  
> I saw a post on tumblr about Jaskier getting a wolf tattoo, and then I lost it, unfortunately. So credit goes to whoever came up with it.


	6. 1 year

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mechislav is the OMC. He barely has anything to do with the plot so don't worry about it.

“And then what?”

“Then, the witcher growled at him! ‘Stay away,’ he told the boy and chopped kikimora’s head off with one blow!”

“Right, that does kind of sound like Geralt,” Jaskier scribbles something down in his little notebook. “Now, did that happen at dawn? In the middle of the night?”

“No,” the farmer says, scratching his head. “Midday, it was.”

“Oh. Well, I’ll go ahead and write down ‘sunset’. It sounds better. Thank you!”

Jaskier clasps the man’s shoulder and puts his hands on his waist while the farmer walks away, back into the field he was working. It’s an early morning, but the sun is chasing away the night’s chill already. Jaskier looks down at the village, lying at the heel of a small hill, drowning in soft fog. It is spring, finally.

Jaskier’s heard a rumor about some witcher travelling somewhere to the North of Vizima. He set out to travel there right away, and now, here he is. The villagers’ stories confirmed his hope that it was, indeed, Geralt who showed up here not longer than a week ago. Unless all witchers are grumpy and have long, silver hair. It is technically possible.

Jaskier truly doesn’t have many better things to do than seek out Geralt. He spent the last couple of weeks in Vizima itself, and everyone there got positively fed up with him. He’s bored out of his mind, his normal life clearly not being enough to sate his love for adventuring anymore. Besides, he simply misses Geralt, and wants to see him again. Perhaps, he shouldn’t have gotten so attached to the witcher, but there isn’t much he can do about it now.

He goes to the West, because that’s where the witcher was headed according to the farmers. When the night comes, Jaskier is happy to notice some lights ahead of him: another town. He reaches it soon enough, and goes straight to the tavern. Order some food, talk to the owner, perform a couple of songs; the bard follows his usual routine until he sees a very interesting man sitting in the farthest corner of the room.

Black clothing, two swords, a scar across his lips, eyes with vertical pupils, watching him with interest when he starts singing ‘Toss a Coin’. Jaskier comes up to him as soon as he’s gathered all the coin people are willing to give.

“Is it required by some witcher code to stay away from all the fun?”

“If it were, we would have to banish Geralt from the order, it seems.”

Jaskier grins.

“He’s told you lot about me?”

“Twice. For him, it’s the equivalent of never shutting up,” the witcher returns the smile, and Jaskier laughs.

“Oh, I like you! Care to have a drink with me, master witcher?”

“Sure. I’m Mechislav.”

“Uh, Jaskier,” he shakes the witcher’s hand.

“Yes, I figured.”

Jaskier asks the barmaid to bring them both some mead and turns to Mechislav, licking his lips nervously. This man had relatively short blond hair, so the villagers must have been talking about someone else. Or were they simply mistaken? Blond and silver aren’t that different, right? And he could have cut it at any point. So was Jaskier following the wrong trail? Gods damn it.

“So, was that you who killed a kikimora in the village to the East?”

“Why?” Mechislav smirks knowingly.

“No reason, really. I just heard some rumors.”

“Is that so? Well, maybe you will be pleased to hear that it was our dear Geralt. When I last saw him, a few days back, he was headed to Vizima.”

“Vizima?” Jaskier’s heart misses a beat.

“Exactly. Looking for you, actually.”

His head falls on the table and he groans. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Mechislav laughs. “How the hell did you miss each other?”

“I have _no_ idea! But did you say he was looking for me?”

“Oh, yes. He was quite impatient to seek you out once the winter was over.”

“Right. That is incredibly nice to hear, but why did he wait for the winter to be over?”

The witcher raises his eyebrows. “He didn’t tell you about it?”

“About what?”

“Kaer Morhen? We live there every winter. It’s a witcher tradition, of sorts.”

“Oh. Oh, so that’s why I didn’t hear a single thing about any of you guys for three whole months! Dear gods above, you’d think he would warn me!”

“I assumed you knew already. Geralt was never especially tactful, though. So did he just leave you at some point?”

“Well, not- not exactly. I left him, and then we just. Didn’t meet again.”

Jaskier gestures for the maiden to bring him more mead, and Mechislav follows his suit.

“You’re not mad at him, then?”

“Not really. Only a little. It doesn’t seem like something you just forget to tell your friend, you know? ‘Hey, I’m going to vanish completely for the whole winter. Don’t go around thinking I’m dead or anything!’ It doesn’t- Ah, never mind.”

“Right. He was excited to find you, though. We don’t often see him like that.”

The words warm up Jaskier’s heart and he beams at the witcher. “I can’t wait to see him, either.”

***

Next morning Jaskier sets out back to the village with a heavy sigh. So much for his confidence in them meeting again. If it wasn’t for Mechislav, they could have missed each other and their time apart could prolong for gods know how long.

Not that it matters now. Even if Destiny wanted to keep Jaskier away from Geralt, it wouldn’t work.

He shakes his head, almost surprised at his own thoughts. Since when has “he’s my friend” become “I will fight Destiny itself with my bare hands for the right to be by his side”? Ah, well. It’s a nice line for the next ballad, at least. He should write it down.

Jaskier walks until the darkness sets in, and then until the first light of dawn, hoping that Geralt has realized his mistake already and is riding towards him, as well. He has to stop then, though.

Jaskier finds a small cave in the side of the nearest mountain, and sets up a little camp there. He doesn’t care to make a fire, so he just puts his stuff next to the wall and lies down in his sleeping bag, drifting off almost instantly. But before the bard can truly fall asleep, he hears distant footsteps deeper inside the cave. _Shit. Is it not as small as he thought?_

Because of the echo, it’s nearly impossible to tell how far away those footsteps are. They also don’t sound human. Probably for the same reason, right? The echo? Jaskier tenses and gets up, as quietly as he can. He glances back, outside, and there is no one there. He is alone.

Suddenly, all sounds stop. Jaskier freezes. He sticks the tip of his tongue out trying to see _anything_ in the darkness ahead. His breathing is too loud in his own ears, and he fears he might miss another sound from within the cave.

There they are, the footsteps again, this time much faster and, Jaskier thinks, closer. _Fuck fuck fuck._ He reaches out to the pile of his things near the wall as _something_ approaches. He grabs the fucking lute, for some reason, instead of his sword, but it’s too late. There is a glint of two yellow dots right at the edge of the dark.  
Jaskier swings his arms back, ready to hit whatever comes at him.

And then the moonlight finally paints the details on the previously vague shadow: the silver hair, broad, definitely human(-ish) shoulders, arms spread wide and a small smile on the lips of his witcher.

Jaskier drops the lute on the ground and steps towards Geralt, wincing instantly at the sound the instrument makes. It doesn’t stop him from throwing himself in the witcher’s tight embrace. Jaskier feels him inhale deeply, and closes his eyes.

They stay like this for a while, holding each other closely, in the quiet of the night. The wind, so cold in contrast with Geralt’s body, howls around them, and brings the smells of the first spring flowers into the cave. It’s perfect. Jaskier thinks it might be a dream, so surreal and wonderful everything is. If it’s a dream, maybe he could-

“Jask.”

“Long time no see, dear witcher!”

They finally pull away from each other. Jaskier looks in Geralt’s eyes, almost black, with the pupils completely round, and laughs. His eyes go down, to his lips. He’s so happy he wants to-

“Hmm. How have you been?”

“Oh, you know. Made friends with an elf and another witcher, made some nobles mad and some, very happy… Nothing new. And you?”

He can’t stop grinning, especially seeing the confusion on Geralt’s face. Such a beautiful face, too. Gods, he’s missed him. If he could just-

“Good. I found you.”

Jaskier puts his hand on the back of the other man’s neck, pulling him closer. Their foreheads touch. He exhales slowly. He lets go.

“I’m glad you did. You know, I thought I was about to be torn apart by some monster.”

“So you grabbed your lute?” Geralt tilts his head with a smug smirk.

“It is absolutely your fault for leaving me for so long without good practice. Can’t even tell her apart from my sword anymore.”

“Hmm. Good thing I’m back now.”

***

In the very next town they pass, they stop to celebrate. Upon walking into the local tavern, Jaskier hears something sort of unusual: music. He’s used to bringing all the songs with him, but it seems like this time someone else has gotten here first. Jaskier doesn’t mind, especially considering that the other bard is pretty decent.

They drink, and talk way more than Jaskier’s used to. Geralt, it seems, is surprised himself at his own desire to share the tales of his life at Kaer Morhen. He asks the bard questions, as well, though this time Jaskier keeps quiet about some of his adventures. Neither one of them dwells on it, both too happy to be together again.

With each drink, everything around Jaskier becomes brighter, louder, clearer. His focus is on Geralt, and Geralt only, his eyes and cheekbones and lips and everything. Jaskier’s heart is full of laughter and sunlight, and the alcohol has him feeling light in every sense of the word. He wants to move. He takes Geralt’s hand and pulls him up.

“We should dance.”

“No,” the witcher says, but there is a smile hiding behind this big frowny face.

“Yes. Come on! You _do_ know how to dance, right?”

“Jaskier.”

“Geralt.”

Jaskier bows theatrically, still holding the other man’s hand, and he finally gives up.

And then they dance, which Jaskier can barely believe. He doesn’t really remember how, there’s just something fast and fun, something light, a good song, and Geralt is in front of him, and he honest to gods smiles, a bit shy but open and happy. And then his hand is on Jaskier’s waist, and the music is much slower, and he’s leaning into Geralt, hides his face in the other man’s neck, suddenly a bit flushed.

“Geralt.”

“Hm?”

Jaskier keeps quiet, and the witcher asks again, “Jask?”

“I love-” Jaskier frowns at himself. “I’m glad you’re back.”

***

And so, their life is back to the familiar routine of travelling from one place to another. Jaskier has missed not only Geralt but also the adventures, seeing the people they saved coming home, alive and well, making them happy, lifting their spirits with the sheer power of music.

This winter has also given Jaskier some perspective on things. He knows, of course he knows that his initial admiration for Geralt has grown into something more. How could he not, when he’s so completely full of this feeling? When he feels as if his heart has suddenly become too big for his chest?

What he didn’t realize before was the fact that there is no running from it. He can dance around the topic, even in his own thoughts, he doesn’t have to name it, but it will still be there.

His love.

But there is nothing he can do about it, is there? In all the time they’ve spent together, Geralt has never shown any romantic interest in men, not to mention Jaskier in particular. It’s all right. His heart will ache for a while, and then it will get easier. It must, one day, right?


	7. 1 year 4 months

“Got you.”

“What a surprise! It’s almost like you have professional training and decades of practise,” Jaskier manages, trying to escape from where he’s pinned to the ground by the witcher.

He complains just a tiny bit because that’s what he does. In truth, he still enjoys training. He likes feeling powerful, and knowing that he’s more skilled than half the people they meet.

“Again.”

Geralt gets on his feet, reaching out to Jaskier and helping him up, as well. The bard is breathing heavily, not tired yet but definitely hot. He feels a few drops of sweat go down his forehead, and wipes them away with the edge of his shirt.

When he looks at Geralt again, the witcher seem to be frozen. He stares intensely somewhere below Jaskier’s chest.

“What? I know I’ve gotten incredibly fit but-”

“Is that a tattoo?”

“Oh.”

 _Oh._ Yes, Jaskier might have neglected to tell his witcher about the little wolf he’s got tattooed under his heart. He figured it might be too much of a tell.

“Uh, yes. I got it this winter, it’s…”

Geralt gets closer and lifts Jaskier’s shirt again, just enough to see the picture on his ribs. Jaskier watches his face carefully but it stays perfectly still.

The witcher looks up.

“Why the wolf?”

“Seriously? No wild guesses?”

“I’ve got a couple.”

Geralt take another step forward. Puts his hand on Jaskier’s side and rubs a small circle with his thumb, right where the tattoo is. His eyes flicker down for a moment, and then meet Jaskier’s again.

The bard’s breathing is fast and shaky now for different reason entirely. He licks his lips nervously.

Geralt starts to lean in, and then furrows. “I’m not misreading this, am I?”

“Oh, no. Not at all. Don’t even-”

Geralt’s lips are covering his, and finally, finally he can taste that little smile. It’s sweet and sour from the sweat, better than any of the bard’s fantasies, any of his dreams. Geralt’s soft moan sends Jaskier’s head spinning, and he puts his hand in the other man’s hair. Geralt grips his side tighter. They pull each other closer, and their bodies fit so perfectly together that Jaskier could probably write songs about it if there was at least one coherent thought in his head.

“Jask,” the witcher groans, and it sends a wave of heat right down his stomach.

He kisses him deeper.

Geralt palms him through his trousers, biting his bottom lip. Jaskier takes off his belt, and Geralt pulls his pants down, takes his cock in his hand.

“Fuck,” he breathes out.

“Hmm,” the witcher agrees and proceeds to kiss his neck.

He starts jerking Jaskier off, slow and steady, and gradually picks up the pace. The bard thinks he might melt. He shamelessly fucks into Geralt’s fist, biting his lip and moaning. He’s so fucking hot, and Geralt is right here, all around him, it must be the best he’s ever felt in his entire life, dear gods. 

“Geralt, that’s- oh, that’s so good…”

Jaskier tugs at the witcher’s shirt, and they pull away from each other to take both of those off.

He kisses Geralt’s neck, his jaw, the corner of his mouth, cups the other man’s face. They kiss again, deeply and slowly, though Jaskier makes it desperate soon enough.

His head falls onto Geralt’s shoulder, and he kisses it, too, sloppy and open-mouthed. He feels a small scar there and can’t help but to lick it. Geralt’s exhales sharply and moves his hand faster.

It’s not long until Jaskier feels the wave of pleasure coming over him, and there are stars in his eyes, he can barely keep himself upright, spilling into Geralt’s fist. Once it’s over, the witcher licks his hand clean. Jaskier thinks he might have fallen onto his knees then even if he didn’t intend to.

He absolutely does, though.

He takes Geralt out of his trousers and his mouth waters. Jaskier has imagined it so many times, with either both of them too drunk to remember the next morning, or under some sort of spell, or it was Geralt simply wanting to get off and Jaskier offering his help, there was never any love or tenderness, certainly not on the witcher’s part, he’d never let himself go that far. But now Geralt is looking down on him like he’s the most precious thing in the universe, and the hand on his cheek is so gentle it’s almost too much.

He licks Geralt’s cock, sucks lightly on the head, and slowly takes it in his mouth. It tastes so fucking good, hot and heavy, and fits perfectly into his mouth. He puts his hand around the rest of it and starts jerking the witcher off. Geralt’s hips twitch a bit, and Jaskier tries his best not to smile. He goes up and down, taking more of Geralt into his mouth each time.

Geralt puts his hand into Jaskier’s hair, and he moans, knowing well enough how the vibrations feel around the other man’s cock.

He starts meeting Jaskier’s movements with his hips, pushing into the bard’s mouth, and he hums approvingly. Geralt relaxes a bit, still careful not to go too hard on him. Jaskier runs his hands up and down the witcher’s sides, finally settling on his thighs. 

When his breathing becomes ragged and his groans grow louder, Jaskier knows he’s getting close. Geralt pulls at his hair once or twice as a warning but he only sucks harder, takes Geralt’s cock in deeper. When the witcher comes, he tries to swallow as much of it as he can, and then sits back on his heels, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.  
Geralt lowers himself down onto the ground next to him a few moments later.

“Jaskier?”

The bard looks at his witcher, a lazy smile blooming on his face. He leans in and plants a soft kiss on Geralt’s lips. The other man deepens it.

When Geralt pulls away, his gaze is strangely happy and serious at the same time.

“Jask. I love you.”

Jaskier beams at him and a small, shocked laugh escapes his lips.

“I love you, too.”

***

When they fall asleep, that night and many others after it, Jaskier can feel Geralt’s fingers tracing gently the lines of his tattoo. He hides his face in the witcher’s neck and says, barely audible, _“It’s all for you, darling. I’m all yours.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm thinking of making this a series and straight up re-writing the whole canon (next part would be from Geralt's pov). anyway, thanks to everyone for reading! i hope you all enjoyed it as much as i loved writing it!  
> PS i read all the comments and they make me so incredibly happy!! thank you all :')


End file.
